


Threatened

by My_Beating_Hart



Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Angst, Gen, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Threats of Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-13
Updated: 2016-04-13
Packaged: 2018-06-02 02:42:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6547366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/My_Beating_Hart/pseuds/My_Beating_Hart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A sudden weight on his abdomen made Zevran’s eyes snap open immediately, one sleep-heavy hand automatically reaching for the blade he kept hidden under the pillow, but the sight that met his eyes made him freeze in place.<br/>Theron’s foot was planted squarely on his stomach, taking some of his weight. His bow was in his hands, the string creaking as it was drawn back slowly. The dim light gleamed on the sharp arrowhead pointed at his throat. Zevran stared in disbelief.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Threatened

Theron had tossed and turned for much of the night so when his sleeping form settled down without apparently waking, Zevran could relax enough to let himself drift back to sleep. He tightened his grip around the archer’s midsection in a comforting gesture, nuzzled into the warmth of his pillow, and slowly his awareness faded.

 

He was dimly aware some time later of motion but realised it was only Theron getting slowly out of bed. Zevran didn’t even open his eyes this time, sleepily figuring that the Dalish elf was going to relieve himself and would return soon. Stretching languidly in the new space, he rolled onto his back and went back to sleep.

 

A sudden weight on his abdomen made Zevran’s eyes snap open immediately, one sleep-heavy hand automatically reaching for the blade he kept hidden under the pillow, but the sight that met his eyes made him freeze in place.

Theron’s foot was planted squarely on his stomach, taking some of his weight. His bow was in his hands, the string creaking as it was drawn back slowly. The dim light gleamed on the sharp arrowhead pointed at his throat. Zevran stared in disbelief and then broke out of the paralysis.

“Theron,” He warned, removing his hand from under the pillow - relinquishing his grip on the blade very reluctantly, but he’d seen Theron in action many times, had been on this end of the ranger’s bow once, long ago. It would only take a second for the arrow to pierce his throat.

Instead, he lifted his hands palm up against his chest to show they were empty. “Theron, what are you _doing_?” He hissed, looking past the arrowhead to the ranger’s face hidden in the darkness of the night. Was he still asleep? Why was he doing this? “It’s _me_. _Joder_ , have you gone mad?” He added weakly when the weight on his midsection didn’t ease and let him take normal breaths. The arrowhead still gleamed, as if Theron was waiting for something. Maker above, the last thing he wanted to do was startle the ranger and make him release the bowstring. “Theron, I am no threat, I assure you.” He continued, staring beseechingly up at the ranger looming over him and trying not to acknowledge the cold gnawing of fear in his gut.

There was a deathly silence for a long time, during which Zevran felt his throat tighten as he stared at the readied arrow still pointed unwaveringly at him, heard Theron’s slow breathing above him. Would he watch it fly, and feel the pain of it bite into his throat and then leave him to bleed out all over the bed? Fear caught at his throat.

“Please, _mi amor_. If you are still asleep somehow, you will regret this _so much_ once you wake.” He tried to ignore how much his voice was trembling now. “ _Por favour._ ”

The bowstring above him creaked as it was slowly relaxed. The arrow slid towards him at a slow crawl, and he gingerly pushed it away from his face until it came free of the bow and fell onto the bed. It rolled, and then fell to the floor with a sharp clatter that made him flinch, and Theron’s body jerk unsteadily.

“Zevran?”

Zevran nearly yelled his relief as it washed through him, but in the next instant it was replaced by anger. He wriggled out from under Theron’s pinning foot to sit against the headboard away from the other elf, watching as Theron blinked sleepily and then realise he was standing on the bed.

“What-”

“Theron, _please_ tell me you were dreaming until a second ago, because if that was your idea of a _joke_...” He snapped, unable to take his eyes off the ranger’s hands and the bow he still held, just in case there was another arrow there.

“I…”

Theron looked down at his bow, and then abruptly dropped it as if it had burned him; it clattered to the ground beside the bed to join the arrow. The Dalish elf stared at them in disbelief, and then his knees slowly folded under him. He sank back to the bed with a frightened whimper at the reality of the situation, a vulnerable sound that made Zevran’s heart twist despite the context. Theron’s next breath in was a sharp gasp, and he pressed one hand tightly to his mouth to muffle a sob.

“I thought I was- that you were-” He trailed off, eyes wide as he began to breathe heavily, gaze flicking wildly from Zevran to the weaponry and back so his wide pupils flashed blue-green. “I was about to- In my dream- nightmare… Oh, _Creators_.”

Zevran frowned. Another nightmare. One that didn’t have him screaming awake, but instead alert enough to handle weaponry to defend himself against some imagined threat in his sleep.

“Theron,” He began, some of the natural anger fading to concern, and he reached a hand out as he edged closer. Theron flinched away before he’d even made contact.

“No!” The abrupt yell was alarmingly loud in the otherwise quiet room, enough to make them both freeze in surprise. Theron cleared his throat and then shook his head firmly. “No.” He repeated, barely above a whisper.

Zevran could only watch as Theron got off the bed and grabbed his pillow.

“Hide them.” The Dalish elf muttered, and Zevran could only assume he meant his beloved bow and the quiverful of arrows that always rested not far from the bed. “And maybe lock the door.”

With that, he padded out of the bedroom and pulled the door shut behind him, no doubt to spend the night in exile on the sofa tormenting himself about the disaster had been so narrowly averted. Zevran sighed as he stared at the shut door, wanting dearly to go out and comfort Theron. Yet, clearly now was not the best time to talk about what had just happened.

“Tomorrow, then.” He vowed to himself as he gathered up the bow and returned the arrow to its quiver, stowing them in the small gap between the wall and the headboard.

He paused once he was done, and could hear something through the wood of the door that sounded suspiciously like crying. His heart twisted in his chest for his poor broken _amor_ , but his limbs were starting to feel weak with relief and exhaustion now there was no imminent threat. Zevran collapsed gladly into bed, staring hopefully at the closed bedroom door until sleep claimed him permanently for the night.

**Author's Note:**

> I really suck at coming up with titles. Or good emotional pieces. IDK, I might end up quietly deleting this in a few weeks.  
> And once again, I'm not sure who to feel sorrier for here.


End file.
